“My chair is six feet tall and in the shape of a winged, imperial goddess. Because I am a goddess in my head when I’ve had too much tequila. That’s what I do when I’m drunk: I pretend I’m a goddess. I even put on a white net tutu and a white shiny bodysuit and wear my silver heels. What is wrong with me?”

“My chair is more like a couch. I need a nap. I have five teenagers. Can you say ‘Hell on earth’? No one tells you what it’s like to raise teenagers, because if that secret became general knowledge, the human species would die out. Also, did anyone else hear the rumor that my son was the one who painted a red bra on that horse statue in town?”

“My chair is black. Pure black. Because that’s the kind of mood I’m in now. I hate menopause. I’m sweating at random times as if I’ve got a hose over my head. I have hot flashes at night that soak my sheets. Did I want to go swimming on my mattress? No, I didn’t. I’ve gained twenty pounds in six months. I have chin hairs sprouting every day. What? I’m a man? I need a beard for what purpose? Black chair, black menopause.”

“My chair is colorful because I am eighty-two years old and that’s all I want to see from here on out. Color. Red. Blue. Purple. I’ve had enough tough times in my life, and every day forward from here on out I want to have red, purple, yellow, and orange around me.”

“My chair is pink with a lion roaring in the background. See the head? That’s how I feel. I feel like roaring. I’m a woman, hear me roar. Remember that slogan? Hear me, I’m going to roar.” And she did. That long, growly roar startled everyone in the bookstore. One woman dropped a pile of books, and another dropped her teacup full of lemongrass tea and it shattered, but the book club clapped enthusiastically.

One can see why so many women want to join this book club.

* * *

“Spit here,” Jules told my mother and aunts. She held out the DNA tubes to each of them. We were at my house, at my kitchen table, a row of pink Dolly Parton roses in short glass vases running down the middle.

Sundance had his head on my lap, and Venus was in my lap. Butch and Cassidy were wrestling in the family room. They’d already knocked over a pile of books and almost knocked over my wine barrel coffee table.

I’d made pasta and salad. I’d bought bread. Aunt Camellia had baked a butterscotch pie. I had a slice of that pie before dinner, simply as an appetizer, and a slice for dessert. Can’t get too thin!